Boswell—whom Macaulay unduly depreciated as an abject toady, and whom Carlyle unduly exalted as a martyr to hero-worship—was a consummate artist in biography. The triumph of his art is that it eludes notice; but take a typical instance—take his account of the dinner-party at Mr Dilly's, the bookseller in the Poultry, where Johnson, by Boswell's ingenious diplomacy, was brought to meet John Wilkes, whom he detested, and had handled severely in his political pamphlets, called The False Alarm and The Patriot; the description shows Boswell's dramatic gift; and it is only one of a hundred scenes which do so. When Johnson and Boswell entered Mr Dilly's drawing-room, and Johnson found that the gentleman in lace was Mr John Wilkes, he took up a book; but he was ashamed to let Boswell see that he was disconcerted, and had recovered his composure by the time dinner was announced. Boswell must tell the rest in his own words. "Mr Wilkes found himself next to Dr Johnson, and behaved to him with so much attention and politeness that he gained upon him insensibly. No man eat more heartily than Johnson, or loved better what was nice and delicate. Mr Wilkes was very assiduous in helping him to some fine veal. 'Pray give me leave, sir—it is better here—a little of the brown—some fat, sir—a little of the stuffing, some gravy.—Let me have the pleasure of giving you some butter.—Allow me to recommend a squeeze of this orange; or the lemon perhaps may have more zest.'—'Sir, sir, I am
